, as
they came into the huge curving corridor which ran behind the ground
tier boxes.

"How dark it is! Claudie, give me your hand. It slopes, doesn't it?"

"Yes. The entrance is just here."

"How hot your hand is!"

"Here we are!" said Alston.

He pushed a swing door, and they came into the theater. It was dimly
lighted, and over the rows of stalls pale coverings were drawn. The
hundreds of empty boxes gaped. The distant galleries were lost in the
darkness. It was a vast house, and the faint light and the emptiness of
it made it look even vaster than it was.

"The maw, and I am to fill it!" Claude thought again. And he was
conscious of unimportance. He even felt as if he had never composed any
music, as if he knew nothing about composition, had no talent at all. It
seemed to him incredible that, because of him, of what he had done,
great sums of money were being spent, small armies of people were at
work, columns upon columns were being written in myriads of newspapers,
a man such as Crayford was putting forth all his influence, lavishing
all his powers of showman, impresario, man of taste, fighting man. He
remembered the night when Sennier's opera was produced, and it seemed to
him impossible that such a night could ever come to him, be his night.
He thought of it somewhat as a man thinks of Death, as his neighbor's
visitant not as his own.

"Chaw-_lee_!" shouted an imperative voice. "Chaw-ley! Chaw-_lee_!"

"Ah!" cried a thin voice from somewhere behind the stage.

"Get down that light! Give us your ambers! No, not the blues! Your
ambers! Where's Jimber? I say, where is Jimber?"

Mr. Mulworth, the stage producer, who was the speaker, appeared running
sidewise down an uncovered avenue between two rows of stalls close to
the stage. Although a large man, he proceeded with remarkable rapidity.
Emerging into the open he came upon Claude.

"Oh, Mr. Crayford is here. He wants very much to see you."

"Where is he?"

"Somewhere behind. I think he's viewing camels. Can you come with me?"

"Of course!"

He went off quickly with Mr. Mulworth, who shouted:

"I say, where is Jimber?" to some unknown personality as he ran toward a
door which gave on to the stage.

"Let us go and sit down at the back of the stalls, Alston," said
Charmian. "They don't seem to be trying the locusts yet."

"No. There are always delays. The patience one needs in a theater! Talk
of self-control! Here, I'll pull away the--or shall w